What Will Be
by Jord
Summary: Tinkering with the idea that Batman had a sibling before his parents died. And perhaps that sibling wound up at the opposite end of the spectrum; the opposite end of the law. How would this revelation define both the man and the Bat?
1. Departure

**Quick intro:** I suppose this could prove to be an AU or somesuch as I want to explore and toy with alternative structures of the Batfamily. Yes, there will be an OC, and I intend to use them to navigate a little differently through Batman's origins. Contrary to my typical lengthy chapters, I'll try to keep these shorter and a little more taut. Sometimes I wonder if writing this was a bad idea in the first place, but then again, bad ideas need an outlet every once in a while too, don't they?

* * *

 **Departure**

" _Tom_. Tom, please…where…?"

As if plunging head-first into Arctic water, Tom was jarred into consciousness. All five sense fired into a state of instant mobility and he braced himself for the worst. But along with consciousness surfaced confusion. She...she was awake. Her face remained paler than the norm. And her lips were were dry, thinner. Her entire being was an antithesis of her innate composure. And then, despite all that he believed himself prepared for; her pleading gaze - her _entire_ being at this very moment - it rendered him mute.

The news wouldn't kill her. Leastways, he didn't think so. Martha was a strong, confident woman. But it could very likely propel her towards a breaking point. God knows, he had felt as if he'd been toeing the line himself.

Three days. For three days he'd been immersed in an impossible quagmire of emotional torture. It was severely testing his fortitude. And if the fates were to roll cruel numbers and he was to lose the both of them, all the colour would drain from his world. Death would have proved infinitely preferable to an unendurable existence.

 _But you would still have Bruce_.

But what kind of father would he have proved to be, _really_? Truthfully, he wouldn't merit the title. Tom was neither a pessimist nor an optimist. He possessed a pragmatic approach to what once felt like a blessed life. And his rationale even under fire was steadfast. At this juncture in life he was well aware of his capabilities, his limits. Given more adverse circumstances, if he'd have have lost both mother and child, his predicament was all but etched in stone.

"Where is she?" she appealed again.

 _You came back. To me. Just when I needed you the most. And now I have to greet you with sorrow_.

"I...I think you know." Tom said softly; his hand reached out to grasp hers with a firm gentleness. His index finger brushed against the cold hospital bracelet and he pushed it aside so as to prevent nothing more to come between them. Skin on skin. Heart to heart.

She let out the sharpest of breaths, but it was near inaudible. She closed her eyes tight.

"Darling, I know. _I know_. It's okay to cry." consoled Tom as something all-too-familiar began to sting his eyes and coil tightly around his throat.

But she didn't cry.

Instead, she opened her pale blue eyes and met her husband's gaze. If it wasn't for the tumult of grief that conveyed reams through those eyes he'd always hold dear, one less accustomed to her character would deem her stoic, impassive. Indifferent even.

He, on the other hand, couldn't hold it in any longer. As soon as one trickle snaked down his cheek, the dam broke.

After far too many _what-ifs_ of the past few days, despite the vehement agony and worry, tears had been denied him. Now, it was all he could do to prevent himself from sobbing loudly. She stretched out her hands in his direction from the cot, beyond the cold metal railings that separated them, and he awkwardly yet willingly fell into her embrace.

"I should...it's _me_ who should be comforting _you_. Not...the other way around."

"I knew." she said. "Somehow, in between all these bouts of unconsciousness, I knew we lost her."

"They said she held on for two and a half days. They didn't even expect her to make it that far."

"What will we tell Bruce?" she whispered.

"What we tell _ourselves_?" cried her husband. "It hasn't even quite sunk in yet. My God, I thought I was going to lose you too."

She cupped his cheek in the soft palm of her hand. "We can't afford to indulge ourselves in what we've just lost. Not for very long, anyway. We still have Bruce. And Bruce still needs us. You know what we have to do."

He nodded slowly in reluctant agreement.

"I'm not telling you not to cry, darling," she went on. "This is _our_ loss. Not the board's, not the businesses', not the charities' or even our friends'. It's our own, private grief. We'll come through this together and on our _own_ terms. But the minute we get home, the _second_ we walk through that door, we need to tell him the truth and be the parents that our son needs. Because that's what it all boils down to. It isn't about taking what you deserve because – "

" – life isn't about what we deserve." he finished for her.

"That's my boy." Her eyes finally moistened.

"We mustn't forget her though..." He fingered a rectangular piece of paper gently.

"I won't. You won't. And I'm certain Bruce won't either. Not even on our deathbeds." She grasped a corner of the same thick ream with thumb and forefinger. She made one more valiant effort to compose this tenacity that came so naturally to her, but her voice faltered as her eyes fixed on the sloping, cursive font of the name on the certificate.

 _Anne Robin Wayne. Born: December 7_ _th_ _2003_.


	2. To Thine Own Self

An extra special thanks to those who reviewed. Would be happy to return the favour if there's anything you'd like me to look at. I'm a little concerned that the chapters are too short and will attempt to remedy that in the future. Thanks for reading.

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 **Chapter 2 – To Thine Own Self**

A happy medium of soft and hard drops of April rain splattered against the wide window. Bruce extended his legs; superimposing his bare feet up against his mother's equivalent. She pushed back gently in acknowledgment as she lifted her gaze to meet his momentarily. Her son contentedly leaned back against one of many striped pillows that adorned the large bay window and closed his eyes, listening to her read.

His mother's voice came as a melodious one from lands distant and ethereal.

"'And how do you know that you're mad?'

'To begin with,' said the Cat, 'a dog's not mad. You grant that?'

'I suppose so,' said Alice.

'"Well then,' the Cat went on, 'you see a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.'"

Bruce laughed.

His mother paused narration and peered in amusement from the top of the book's pages. He hadn't laughed very much over the past few weeks. He'd taken to bouts of solitude; lengthy sojourns in his room, on the grounds, and other places she wasn't privy to and was reluctant to inquire after. She was of the belief that he was maturing a little faster than other boys his age, and that these predilections had more to do with his introspective nature rather than psychological anomalies.

 _For heaven's sake_ , she realized, _a month ago I'd promised him a baby sister and I had to tell him that she's dead. Why couldn't they have introduced the concept of death through a deceased pet goldfish rather than something closer to his heart? These drastic fluctuations have got to be hard to process. Especially for a seven-year-old. If he wants time alone to think things through, we certainly shouldn't begrudge him that_.

"A penny for your thoughts?" She placed the book spread-eagled on the maroon upholstery and thrust a hand deep into her pockets. She rummaged about briefly and then pulled out what she had been searching for and presented it to him in her open palm.

He inspected the coin. "It's a nickel," he glanced at her with lowered brows. "I'd be short-changing you, Mama."

She playfully folded her arms across her chest. "Well, maybe your thoughts are worth more than a penny. Maybe they're worth five cents."

"They're worth more than that!"

She feigned sudden thoughtfulness. "Hm. _Maybe_. Prove it. What's tickled your funny bone?"

"I'm trying to picture myself growling when happy." He smiled. And then his serious demeanour returned. "But I guess I was just thinking...anything that isn't normal – anything that _we_ think isn't normal – is that what makes people crazy?"

"Not necessarily. But then that depends on your _perspective_ of crazy, doesn't it?"

"If someone goes to jail, does that mean they're crazy?"

"It depends on what they've done. Stealing something that doesn't belong to them means that they've broken the law. Circumstances in their lives may have pushed them to be desperate to steal, but it doesn't mean they're nuts."

"If I put salt in my tea, does that make me nuts?"

"Heavens, no. Slightly odd. But it would make you unique." She examined him with furrowed brows. Bruce had reached the age where very few inquiries were off limits, but this particular investigation seemed slightly more profound, especially for a child of seven. "Where is all this coming from?"

He paused, as if briefly considering something before delving into an explanation. "I saw this kid on tv once. He started school and was real excited about it and everything." He pulled his bare foot towards him and began a studious examination of his big toe. He picked at a loosening hang nail at its edges. "But then he found out that he didn't like the stuff that the other kids did. And they found out and acted like he was an alien or something. And then they made fun of him."

Her lips parted slightly in recognition. "What kind of things did this boy on tv like?"

He issued a nonchalant shrug. "Books. Building things. His chemistry set. The other kids told him that chemistry was for dweeboids."

She raised her eyebrows. " _Dweeboids_? Charming. The ever-evolving nature of slang never fails to amuse." She reached out and held his hand, stroking it gently with her thumb. "I'm not an expert on happening trends, Bruce. But then again, I never was. I think it's because when you're trying to please other people all the time, you end up failing yourself. Your nature, I mean. And then you end up deeply unhappy and you make the people around you unhappy too. Unless what you're doing or what you like harms someone – emotionally or physically – stick to what makes you _you_. I mean, wouldn't you rather be with people who like the real you? Why waste your energy on those other... _dweeboids_?"

"But what if they could be his friends if he just _pretends_ to like stuff they're into? If he doesn't, then he could be alone for the rest of his life."

He remained skeptical; unconvinced by her rationale. Thomas was to blame for this side of him - head-butting typically terminated with a stalemate and both parties walked away with sore egos. So she would handle him just like she handled her husband. Never did she imagine playing devil's advocate so frequently with her own son. "Okay, I _somewhat_ see what you're getting at...and I'll bite. _Suppose_ these are the kinds of friends everyone wants. What exactly are they into? What would you have to like to break into their inner circle?"

"Spitballs. Sticking gum on Miss Richard's chair after she removes her contacts. Pranking other kids who're quiet. Who're different. Copy each other's homework. And stealing toys and stuff. They hate books too. This one kid – he burned a book of poems right outside the school."

"So you're telling me that you would rather...let's see," she began to count off on her fingers, "Steal toys and stuff, never do any homework on your own, throw a water balloon on another poor, unsuspecting soul for being different, sit on a giant pile of spitballs and rather set fire to a book than read it? Or play with your chemistry set? Or build a small motor car with your dad?"

"No _oo_...I...guess that sounds kind of lame. I don't want to stop doing all the stuff I like. What if I stop doing only _some_ of it, though?"

"You could. But it sounds like a complete waste of energy to me. But I suppose that ultimately...as long as you take care of your responsibilities, this is your own decision. Only you know if you're being honest with yourself. Only you're accountable for these actions."

Bruce turned a glum face at the window and stared out at the rain-drenched lawn. "I guess so." Then he jerked his head in her direction and stuttered quickly. "But I was talking about the kid on tv. Not me."

"Oh yes, of course. Maybe in the next episode someone will tell him what I just told you. And maybe things will get better. They...the other children in the show, they weren't _hurting_ him for being different, were they?"

"On the inside – yeah. A little. But he didn't get into any fights."

She exhaled softly in relief. "Good. That's good to know." She picked up the book and then hesitated. "Before I go on, however, I would like to know if – at this point in time – being read to aloud is one of the sacrifices that boy on tv has made in pursuit of his new friends...?"

He responded with a sheepish grin. "No. I don't think he'd ever give that up."


End file.
